Pecking Order (20 page)

Eric took his time eating, slowly flicking through the paper, drinking his glass of water with infinitesimal sips. The other diners had long since departed and the only sounds were of the kitchen being cleaned by the time he reached the start of the sport section. He closed the paper and folded it in half, finished off the last of the cold coffee then removed a balsa toothpick from the small earthenware pot in the middle of the table and worked an errant fragment of nut out from between his molars. Then he got up and carried his dirty plates and cups over to the counter. 'Naomi!' he called through. 'Could I settle the bill please?'

She re-appeared, wiping wet hands on her apron. 'Everything OK?'

‘As delicious as usual,' replied Eric, removing ten pounds from his wallet.

'Good, that's,' she glanced down at the bill for his table. 'Eight pounds thirty please.'

He handed her the note and said, 'Please donate the change to this month's charity.'

'Thanks Professor,' she smiled, dropping the coins into a jar. Taped to the front was a business card that read, Richmond's Cat Rescue Centre.

Back in his car, he put his gloves on. The drive to Breystone took less than an hour. As he turned into the track, he dipped his lights and rolled slowly along, trying to see the glow from the windows of Rubble's caravan through the trees ahead. Suddenly a dark form dropped into the pool of light before his car and Rubble squatted there, grinning blindly at the glaring headlamps. He hit the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt and Rubble stood, walked round the front of the car and opened the side door.

'Hello, Agent Orange.'

'Get in Agent White,' snapped Eric, still shocked by Rubble's unexpected appearance. 'How long have you been waiting up there?'

 'Don't know. An hour or two,' replied Rubble, unable to remove the lopsided smile from his face.

After handing Rubble some gloves, Eric put the car into reverse and they backed up the track and onto the road. Soon, they were cruising along the motorway, Eric scrupulously keeping within the speed limit. 'Right, the subject lives in a small flat in the city centre. He mentioned to me that his door is broken, so he hasn't bothered leaving us out a key. You can just let yourself straight into the property. Now ...' from under his seat he removed a syringe three quarters full of clear liquid, "...put that in the front pocket of your overalls. Good. OK, we'll stick to the same routine as last time: I'll drive you past the property so you can see exactly which one it is. Then I'll drop you off a bit further up the road and you can walk back, head down the side of the house and enter his flat through the broken door. Once you've put him to sleep, walk back to our rendezvous point.'

‘OK' nodded Rubble and, as he rubbed his hands together, the thin rubber squeaked.

After a while, Eric turned off the motorway and drove carefully along deserted streets. Soon they left the pleasant suburban areas behind and entered a run-down part of the city. Bin bags stood at the top of alleyways. Broken glass, embedded along the top of back yard walls, glittered as they drove by. A burglar alarm flashed on the wall above a shop's canopy, its thin, high wail disturbing the night.

Eventually they turned down Wood Road, and Eric slowed the car to a crawl.

 'See that house with the gate hanging off its hinges? Our subject lives in there - ground floor flat, number fifty.' He let the car slide on a few yards further and parked opposite a boarded-up pub, smoke damage staining the bricks black above the ground floor windows. Eric looked back over his shoulder, 'Just head round to the side door. As I said, it's been left open for you. He usually sleeps on a mattress on the floor in the front room. Go through the kitchen and it's the first room on your right.' As Rubble went to open the door Eric tapped on his upper arm and pointed across the road. 'Once you've completed the job, wait for me round the back of that pub. After I've taken another agent to a job, I'll come back for you. I should be about twenty minutes. Good luck.'

Rubble climbed out and pushed the door shut.

Eric pulled away, drove to the end of the road and parked just round the corner. After turning his lights and engine off, he sank down as low in his seat as possible and waited.

Rubble trod carefully up the alleyway, avoiding bits of splintered wood as he approached the door. It hung partially open, the bottom panel kicked out, a hinge half-wrenched off. With the toe of one boot he pushed it open, hands held in front of him, ready for the unexpected.

A single flickering strip light struggled to illuminate the kitchen, its neighbour in the casing grey and dead. Rubble stepped inside and looked around. Apart from the empty bottles of cider lying at his feet, the room would have been almost empty. A saucepan on the cooker, remains of baked beans inside, the sauce dried out and cracked with little lines. In the sink was a single plate, the end of a fork sticking out from beneath it.

Rubble listened. He could hear faint music; the rhythmic banging of a big bass drum, a chorus of wind instruments over the top. And a slow, heavy rasping. He stood still, relaxing when he realised it was a human snore. As Agent Orange had promised, his subject was sound asleep.

He walked slowly down the hallway, its thin carpet curling at the edges and bent completely back at the front door. Free newspapers clogged the mat, colourful flyers for pizza delivery places spilling from the pages. He stopped at the first door on the right and eased it open an inch at a time, all the while checking that the regularity of the snoring on the other side didn't alter. When the gap was wide enough he looked round the door. Faded blue curtains hung across the window, the yellowish walls were marked with lighter coloured squares where pictures used to hang. On the floor in the corner was a lamp with no shade, a bare bulb softly lighting the room. Next to it was a cheap cassette player, military band music coming from its tinny speakers. Further along the base of the wall was a mattress with a large lump of an elderly man lying across it, one arm resting on the carpet. The folds of flesh encasing his throat quivered slightly as another snore rumbled out.

Rubble examined the rest of the room. In the opposite corner was a single chair, one arm snapped off. Clothes draped over the back. A gas fire and, on the mantelpiece above it, two photos, propped against the wall. Both were crumpled and bent as if they'd been torn from their frames. He crossed the room for a closer look.

The first was of a young paratrooper, crouched on a parched runway, one hand resting on a Vickers medium machine gun. Behind him a Valletta transport plane was being loaded up. His dark glasses contrasted with the whiteness of his teeth. He glowed with health, the muscles knotted across his forearms,

Rubble looked at the next photo. The same man in the canteen of some army barracks. He was brandishing a pint at the camera and his other hand was raised with three fingers pointed up. Three what? Rubble wondered. He leaned forwards, studying the tattoo of the badge on the person's forearm. Underneath the familiar winged crest were the words, 3 Para,
Utrinque Paratus
. He knew most of the regiment's history from Mr Williams in the post office. Now the setting in the other photo clicked. Operation Musketeer, three Para had parachuted into a foreign airfield and taken on the local soldiers who had seized control of a canal nearby. He looked again at the man's three raised fingers. Enemy kills perhaps?

Rubble wondered who the soldier in the photo was. Probably the old man's son or younger brother, he thought,

He turned to the grey-haired figure sprawled diagonally across the mattress. Age had withered his limbs and bloated his stomach.

He wore a tatty cardigan and old trousers; legs rucked up over his ankles to reveal mismatched socks. Silently Rubble crouched down and, very gently, pushed the cardigan sleeve up the arm hanging off the edge of the mattress. To his surprise he saw the tattoo from the photo, now smeared and faded beneath the sagging skin. Its definition was almost lost but Rubble could just make out the number three and outstretched wings of the regiment's crest. He couldn't believe it was the same man. He rubbed the palm of his gloved hand up and down the back of his neck, suddenly unsure about his duty. Putting an ex-paratrooper to sleep; it didn't seem right. But then he thought of his own duty as a Government agent. He went back to the photo for another look. This wasn't the same man smiling back at him, Rubble told himself. This one was fit and honed; a fighting machine. The one on the mattress was weak and vulnerable, robbed of his strength. No use to anyone.

He took the syringe out of his pocket. Kneeling down by the sleeping man's arm, he lightly slid the needle into a bluish vein in the crook of his elbow. The snoring turned into a snort and he moved his arm across the mattress, the syringe hanging from it like a parasite feeding. In the corner the music came to a stop. Rubble's eyes remained fixed on the man's eyelids. The tape clicked over and a trumpet struck up the next march. Rubble waited patiently for the old man's breathing to steady and then, millimetre by millimetre, emptied the Euthanol into his arm.

Even before the syringe was empty the breathing had slowed right down, becoming too gradual for snoring. Now it was just an open-throated inhalation, followed by an equally gradual release of air. Rubble put the cap of the syringe back on, returned it to his pocket and waited. Minutes later, the man's throat began a wet rattling noise. Then he let out a long deep sigh, as if someone had given him long-awaited news. Rubble felt warm, fruity air wash over his eyelashes and the old man didn't breathe again. He crossed the ex-para's hands on his chest and stood back up.

Looking at the person’s mismatched socks, Rubble stepped over to the chair and rummaged through the pile of clothes. Eventually, he found a match for the one on the old man's right foot. Crouching down, he removed the odd sock, replaced it with the correct one and straightened the ruffled trousers. After giving the old soldier a silent salute, he left the house.

Over the road he waited in the shadows behind the pub until Agent Orange's car rolled to a stop outside the car park entrance. He hurried over to the vehicle and quickly climbed in.

'Mission successful?' asked Eric, hand on the gear stick.

 'Yes Sir,' Rubble answered promptly,

'You waited until the subject had stopped breathing?'

'Yes Sir.'

‘Absolutely certain he was dead?’

‘Yes Sir.’

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Eric put the car in gear and they headed off down the street. 'Well done Agent White, you've done a first-class job. That is your work completed with flying colours for tonight.'

Chapter 32

'Anyone for coffee?' asked Julian, holding up the round glass jug from the percolator machine.

'What sort of beans are they again?' said Adele from the corner of the room, soles of her DM boots against the edge of the low table, a half-completed roll-up perched on her knees.

Julian picked up the foil pack, 'It's produced by a Colombian workers’ co-operative. Patricia got it from Pulse, so it's bound to be a good bet.'

'Go on then,' said Adele and Julian filled up a cup and walked round the table to where she was sitting, tongue flicking along the edge of a Rizla.

‘Clare, could I...' he pause for no more than a heartbeat, '...tempt you?' One eyebrow raised a fraction.

Clare looked up and noticed the expression on his face. 'No, I'm caffeined-out at the moment, cheers.'

Julian shrugged and handed the cup to Adele. 'Anyone else?' he asked the rest of the room.

A couple of people replied, 'Yes please.'

Clare resumed her conversation with Adele, keeping Julian's brown corduroys in the periphery of her vision. As he passed before her seat, he made an exaggerated shuffle to get round her, brushing her knees as he did so. Keeping her gaze directed at the table, Clare wondered whether the contact could have been deliberate.

Adele still hadn't lit her roll-up and was impatiently turning her mobile phone over and over in her hand. 'Anyway, as I was saying, sorry about missing the march. We had an absolute nightmare in the flat. The boiler went and the landlord's handyman wasn't answering his phone.'

Clare knew Adele rented a flat with three other girls in one of the most expensive parts of the city. When questioned once, she had explained it away with a vague mention of an unbelievably good deal. The owner, she claimed, lived overseas and hadn't put the rent up in years.

'We had to use all our towels to try and soak up the leak,’ Adele continued. ‘The whole kitchen was flooded by the time we got a plumber round.'

Clare wondered if Adele was aware that the burst boiler story was amongst the most clichéd of excuses for missing something.

'The march sounded great though,' Adele added. 'How many signatures did you get?'

‘I reckon well over three-hundred,' replied Clare. 'People were mobbing us outside the Union.'

'Brilliant, that should make the bastards think again.'

‘Yeah, hopefully,' answered Clare. 'So, you got any plans for after graduation?'

Adele looked scornfully at her roll-up. 'Nope. Probably just bum around a bit. Do a bit of travelling, South America or somewhere like that. I'm certainly in no hurry to join the rat race. You?'

Clare wished she shared Adele's laid back attitude to getting that first graduate job. She said uncertainly, 'Not really. I'm sure you know I'm looking into postgraduate positions. Here or another university nearby.'

Adele nodded thoughtfully. 'Yeah, I fancy doing an MA once I've had a bit of a break. Something related to social work or charity fund-raising. If nothing else, it's another way to use up a year or two, isn't it?' She grinned.

From the doorway Patricia's voice sounded. 'Sorry to interrupt Clare, but could I pinch you for a moment?' She was holding up an A4 sized brown envelope. 'It's about an essay.'

Clare started to frown - all her essays from Patricia's modules had been returned to her long ago. Then she saw the fixed stare on Patricia's face and realised the woman was really referring to something else.